


An Illusion; A Reality

by HarricIsLife



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Character Death Fix, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not Cursed Child Complaint, Ugh, cursed child spoilers are destroying me, please don't let it be true
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarricIsLife/pseuds/HarricIsLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought they saw him, but then they didn't. And he just suffered, because he wanted to be seen. To be touched. To be cared. Not just loved in memory. But in flesh. But he had learned. You don't always get what you want. No matter how much you are wanting. But he still wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Illusion; A Reality

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really upset about those spoilers. Still. Hoping that they are just rumors. Don't let them be true. Please.
> 
> I'm really not functioning properly, and it's a miracle that I managed to write this much. But I'll write further. And in ways that is totally not Cursed Child (rumors) compliant.
> 
> I want to write something fluffy. But my mind is drawing a blank. And I'm just horrified.
> 
> I'm sorry for the angst here. And in larger spades as the story continues.
> 
> God, please. Don't let this be true.

Cedric was awake.

 _Alive_.

And he had no idea how.

He just was.

But even still.

He was buried deep in earth.

And he would've died again, probably, if he didn't disapparate from the coffin.

Just to the outside of it.

He was buried with his wand.

As every dead witch or wizard were.

So that helped.

And he was alive.

Somehow.

Thankfully the panic didn't set in.

Not for a long time.

He realized he was in the graveyard.

But not the one where he died.

But that of Ottery St. Catchpole.

He saw his grave.

Marked with his name.

And looked away.

He didn't want to think about death just now.

He apparated to the house he grew up in.

And found it empty.

Bare.

Unused.

For years, it seemed.

And then he broke down.

Collapsing on his knees.

It hurt.

Everywhere.

But mostly in his heart.

Because he still had one.

He had no idea what was happening.

He was suffering.

In pain.

In tears.

In shambles.

 

It took him hours to realize that he hadn't eaten.

Anything.

For years.

And then much longer to realize that the reason his stomach was making that noise, was because he was hungry.

Because he hadn't eaten.

In years.

He didn't understand why it took him that long to realize that.

He was still on his knees.

After the breakdown.

In the torn and dirty clothes he was buried with.

With dry tear marks on his face.

Eye ducts too dried out to provide more.

Voice sore from wailing for hours on end.

As he pondered that dilemma, he realized he should eat.

Something.

Anything.

Because he was weak.

Malnourished.

Because he had been dead for long.

He needed sustenance to live.

Because he was alive.

Somehow.

He had no idea how he was even able to apparate.

Twice.

In the state that he was in.

Because he had been dead.

Before being alive again.

But he didn't want to think about that.

Though he kept thinking about it.

Being dead really fucks you up he realized.

Somehow he got up.

And tried to find food.

Because he wanted to live.

But the house he grew up in was bare.

Empty.

Just like him.

Not even a single crumb of bread in the cabinets.

He ventured outside.

Walking.

Because he realized that apparating again could be fatal.

In the state that he was in.

And he really didn't want to experience more pain.

Even if it's just on the body.

He had enough of it for his soul.

For his heart.

For his mind.

He was realizing things slow, he realized.

Slower than he had when he had been alive the first time, at any rate.

But he still had a brain.

That counted for something, right.

Because he was alive again.

He walked.

And walked.

And collapsed again.

In the middle of a cluster of trees.

The trees surrounding his house were huge.

As they always had been.

And none to bear anything eatable.

As always.

But he was hungry.

So he ate.

The leaves.

And bark.

And grass.

With aid of magic.

Then he realized he could use magic.

To summon food.

But before he did.

He realized it would be stealing.

And stopped.

He didn't understand how he realized that so fast.

Though he didn't understand anything anymore.

So that was a futile thought.

He ventured a little ahead, and saw smoke from a chimney.

He was in the muggle part of the village, he realized.

And he was thankful for that.

He was not ready to face anyone else from the wizarding world.

Except his mom and dad.

But they weren't home.

There was no one home.

There was no home left.

It was empty.

And he was alone.

He didn't know where they were.

Were they alive?

He hoped they were.

Because he didn't want to be alone.

He wanted to be with them.

But he had to survive first, he realized after vomiting the tree bark he had consumed.

And being seen by muggles was preferable to being seen by wizards.

He stole bread.

He didn't want to.

But at least he knew where he stole from.

So that he can pay for it later.

He stole more.

Some apples from a basket.

Porridge left to rot.

He was surviving.

He would survive.

He was living.

He would live.

As long as he can.

And it would be long.

Far longer than seventeen years.

The panic hasn't set in yet.

It would.


End file.
